


Aint Nothin' like an Asthma Attack

by MountainRose



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Asthma, Flirting, M/M, Skinny Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 05:00:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5653312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MountainRose/pseuds/MountainRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve runs for his health, (or at least, that's how it starts) and there's this <em>guy.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Aint Nothin' like an Asthma Attack

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missingnolovefic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missingnolovefic/gifts).



> miss-ingno asked: skinny!Steve meeting Sam while jogging and sprinting past him going "on your left" and then slumping over trying to brave because skinny!Steve's got something to prove (Sam is just like wtf and then helps him through the asthma attack. WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT JUST TO GET A DATE STEVE)

So there’s this guy. 

Steve watches his ass bouncing off into the distance almost every morning since he got back to the States and it’s just about the only good thing about his new post. He’s usually sitting on the steps at that point, watching his breathing. He jogs for his heart, but it pisses off his asthma, so this is the compromise the Triskelion doctor had come up with. It was his therapist who said running outside would be better, (Steve hates pollen season, even in DC, it’s the worst) and he’s gotta say he’s enjoying the view. 

Hot Guy has that focus Steve gets over a map while he’s running, doesn’t look left or right, except to make room for other runners. He doesn’t look like he’s a million miles away though, it’s more like he’s really thoroughly in his body, like it fits just right. 

Steve has no chance of lapping him back; tiny, asthmatic analyst vrs someone in an Air National Guard jersey? Not a chance. But he’s never let that hold him back, not in Afghanistan and not here.

So every morning for a week, Steve tries to say something, the quiet mumble of acknowledgment met with a quip or  _ something _ , Steve just wants to have a damn conversation with this guy. But he ain’t pretty when he’s jogging, and breathing is an issue, which makes words even more unappealing.

“On your left.”

“Yep, sure, whole …Mall and you’re …on my left. Got it.”

 

“On your left.”

“Uh huh–” And that’s all he gets out that day, because he was up late working STRIKE into tactical shape. Rumlow never fucking listens, and Steve’s running a bit too fast, out of frustration, on too little sleep. He’s a grouch, so he keeps his mouth shut.

 

“’morning.”

“On my left?” Steve wheezes.

“Yep.”

“You better not slow me down, AirForce.” 

“Uh huh, sure.” And the guy’s gone again, too far for conversation, his enviable, ground eating stride pulling him out of earshot as they round the end of the reflecting pool. At least Steve gets a nice long view on the long side.

 

Steve’s pretty tired of the long game by Thursday, so on Friday, he paces himself, waits for AirForce to pass his medically mandated rest spot, then sprints after him. Tactically, it’s a brilliant move; he’s fresh, springy, and running down wind; he catches up in a few hundred yards, and gets his chance;

“On your left.”

“Hahaha!” AirForce sounds  _ delighted _ , his step getting a little springy in the corner of Steve’s eye.

Steve feels his face split in his biggest grin since leaving Bucky in the desert and holds his pace doggedly. There’s no point if AirForce just laps him again–

_ shit. _ His lungs start to seize up, and his next breath feels like breathing in tar. If he can just make it around the corner– but they’re on the long side, it’s too far,  _ shit. _ He veers to the side, stumbles, and goes for his inhaler when the next breath is a choked wheeze. He fumbles the fucking thing– it's a different model to the one he’d had in Afghanistan, it’s got a weird cap, diffuser  _ thing _ , which pings off into the grass and he’s about to puff without it, fuck the consequences–

“Alright, I gotcha Rogers. Sit your ass down.”

AirForce knows his  _ name? _ whathehell– He sits, glad for the grass, and lets his inhaler be pried out of nerveless fingers. The diffuser clicks back into place just as Steve’s lungs give an audible whistle and AirForce puts it back in his hand and holds it there, his fingers the only thing keeping Steve’s hand steady. 

Already, his lips are tingling –he knows they must be blue by now– and his bony arms won't support their own weight. His rescuer has to press the aerosol for him, and it's a damn painful struggle to draw the mist into his throat, let alone his lungs. 

“Shit. Two puffs, yeah? Let’s try that again. Breathe, man. On my count.” 

He counts, just like half a dozen EMTs Steve’s had the pleasure of meeting over the years, and Steve breathes in just as the mist hits the back of his mouth. 

It whistles in, and he holds it like a trooper. 

If he can keep it for five damn seconds, it’ll keep him out of the ER, and he doesn’t need to go to the ER, damnit.

“There you go, you got this. Bit longer…” 

There’s a hand on Steve’s back, holding him up against the side of AirForce’s body, and callused brown and pink fingers around his on the blue inhaler make one hell of a picture just in front of his face. 

“Alright, again–” He breathes out, and Steve copies, to the count, and takes the second successful hit, along with a full lungful of oxygen.

The rich, saturated blue makes Steve’s fingers look dead white, but he can feel life bleeding back into him, and tightens his grip. AirForce lets the inhaler go, and Steve mourns the loss, ‘cause his fingers are freezing, and AirForce is warm. 

“Than–” He coughs, hacking up a lungful of stale air and replacing it with fresh, crystal clear oxygen. “Thanks. Steve Rogers.” 

“Yeah, I kinda put that together. Sam Wilson, at your service.”

Steve nods woozily, then frowns; how did Sam work that out? What was there to put together? 

“Aiite, you need an ambulance?”

Steve jerks. “No! I’m fine, really. Just shouldn’t have pulled a stunt lik– like that.” His face goes hot, he feels like he could cook eggs on his freckles. 

“Well then, wanna join me for breakfast? Been working my way up to asking, and I don’t reckon you wanna run anymore, huh?” 

Steve freezes up for a second, heart thumping hard enough to hurt, and then can’t say ‘ _ yes’ _ quick enough. 

Mission success. 


End file.
